shadow of britain

Chapter 639 Arthur Hastings, you have done so many evil things!

The carriage made a creaking sound as it rolled over the snow-covered road, and the mixture of ice and snow under the wheels occasionally splashed onto the window sills, making the cold even more oppressive.

Mr. Blackwell, private secretary of the British Cultural Counselor in Russia, sat in a corner of the carriage, wearing a dark gray long coat and a scarf covering half of his face, trying his best to hide his unhappiness.

He gently patted away a piece of frost that had fallen from his shoulder, his eyes sometimes fixed on the gray winter scenery outside the window, and sometimes glanced at his leisurely boss Sir Arthur Hastings opposite.

Arthur was concentrating on flipping through a thick folder, occasionally muttering to himself, and occasionally uttering a few impatient complaints to himself.

In Blackwell's opinion, these behaviors of the Sir were early symptoms of mental illness. After all, he had never seen any normal person like Arthur talking to himself. Sometimes, even if no one provokes him, he can quarrel with the air.

Of course, the Jazz never admitted that he was mentally ill. He always said that he was practicing spoken Russian.

But no matter how he explained, Blackwell already regarded him as a madman in his heart.

He worked in the Chinese Embassy in Russia for seven years and followed countless famous British diplomats, but the most special one was this evil star sent from Scotland Yard.

Blackwell closed his eyes, leaned back against the hardwood backrest of the carriage, and let the vibration of the wheels take his thoughts back to the past - his "golden years" in St. Petersburg.

At that time, his boss was Sir William Collins, whose classical education at Harrow School and Cambridge University gave him noble gentlemanly manners and humble manners.

Sir William Collins's words were never harsh, and his orders were always euphemistic. Even the most tedious tasks, when spoken from his mouth, seemed to be inviting Blackwell to complete a pleasant journey.

In those days, Blackwell's job was simply a pleasure. He only had to take care of some documents in the office every day, and occasionally accompany Sir Collins to dinners or dances, where he would come into contact with ladies and officials in the salon.

There, he could not only taste the best champagne and vodka, but also feel warm laughter and moving melodies on cold Russian winter nights.

He remembered those lavish banquets, where he wore a well-tailored tuxedo, held a crystal glass in his hand, and chatted and laughed with the guests in French or German.

The eyes of those ladies and young ladies were always full of teasing appreciation, especially when he sang one or two famous quotes from Shakespeare softly beside the piano, which always attracted a burst of soft admiration and applause. He had met several attractive women in such occasions, and even had a brief gentlemanly love affair with one of them, the daughter of an earl named Sophia.

More importantly, Sir William Collins never interfered with the private lives of his subordinates. Every Maslenitsa or other important festivals, he would generously give Blackwell a day off, giving him the opportunity to enjoy the colorful social life of St. Petersburg. He would attend carnival masquerade balls, go ice skating with friends on the first morning of the New Year, and even occasionally share a brief romance with those charming sopranos in the opera house.

In comparison…

Sir Arthur Hastings is a disaster!
He is extremely picky about his work, has no sympathy for his subordinates, and even arbitrarily deprives them of basic holidays.

Not only that, this knight seems to have a natural talent for attracting trouble, always getting involved in those complex and headache-inducing political whirlpools at the most inappropriate times.

This is not a person who appears in diplomatic circles. Although it is not decent to say this, yes, this guy exudes the atmosphere of a police station and a prison in his every move.

Although he had been working in the diplomatic field for a month, his mind had not yet changed from the cold thinking of the internal affairs department.

What’s even more infuriating is that he seems to think he is quite tolerant towards his subordinates.

Perhaps in Scotland Yard his approach could indeed be considered tolerant.

For a group of guys who were shoemakers, farmers, and textile workers yesterday, if you can pay them on time, give them half a day off a week, give them some unclear money from time to time, and increase their salary by three or five pounds a year, they will be so grateful that they will worship you.

But if you do this to diplomats and these gentlemen, it is not tolerance but harshness!
Blackwell drummed his fingers nervously on his knee, then clenched them into fists.

He had already made a lot of arrangements for the upcoming Maslenitsa holiday, including several elegant dinners, a theater performance, and even a charming lady who was looking forward to spending a romantic evening with him.

And now, everything has been messed up by this sudden official business!

He had been able to accept those boring diplomatic documents and cumbersome itinerary arrangements, but now he not only lost the opportunity to relax, but also had to endure the long journey and biting cold wind.

He recalled the hasty farewell he had with Miss Anastasia in Petersburg the day before. She was wearing a snow-white dress that set off her porcelain-like skin, but she asked with a bit of disappointment in her eyes, "Can't you really stay?"

Blackwell could only vaguely say: "Official business."

His heart was filled with regret and resentment. How could such an opportunity ever come back again?
Arthur Hastings, you have done such evil things!

Your heart of stone is stronger than the bullets under the Tower of London!

Thinking of this, he couldn't help but let out a long sigh.

The voice obviously caught Arthur's attention, and the latter raised his head and glanced at Blackwell indifferently.

Blackwell quickly suppressed his sigh and pretended to adjust his scarf, but he muttered in his heart: "What a cold-hearted boss, he doesn't even bother to care about his subordinates' emotions!"

The atmosphere in the carriage fell silent again, leaving only the sound of horse hooves and wheels crushing snow.

Blackwell leaned back in his seat, trying to close his eyes and take a nap, but found that his mind was filled with unfinished beautiful holiday scenes.

His hand subconsciously reached for the pocket watch on his chest, opened the cover, and saw the small note from Anastasia tucked inside. On it was a message written in her beautiful handwriting: "I'll wait for you at the Maslenitsa ball."

Blackwell's heart was broken, like snow crushed by wheels.

"Why are you so uneasy? Has someone asked you out on a date?" Arthur's voice suddenly broke the silence, with a hint of teasing in his tone.

Blackwell tensed up instantly and forced himself to smile. "No, sir. It's just that the journey was a little boring."

Arthur closed his notebook and put his pen back into his jacket pocket. "Is it Miss Anastasia? She is very beautiful, as white as a swan, well-educated, gentle, and a lady from the Golitsyn family."

When Blackwell heard Arthur's words, his eyes were brighter than the snow outside the window: "Have you met Miss Anastasia?" Arthur's mouth corners slightly raised, revealing a meaningful smile: "Of course I have. As a cultural counselor, it is my responsibility to understand the various social circles of the resident."

"I..." Blackwell said incoherently: "You probably misunderstood. There is nothing between her and me. Sir, you know, I am an honest man. I..."

Arthur lit his pipe and raised his hand to interrupt him. "Honest people? I have seen many so-called honest people, and their hearts are very ugly. So much so that I once doubted whether there are really honest people in the world when it comes to interests and passions."

Blackwell stammered back, "I... Sir... You can't..."

Arthur took a puff of his cigarette and said, "Okay, Henry, I know you're upset. You blame me for ruining your perfect date and your chance to be the son-in-law of the Golitsyn family."

Blackwell's face flushed, half in anger, half in embarrassment.

He clenched his fists, his eyes flickered, but he didn't dare look Arthur in the eye.

"Sir, I didn't mean that." Blackwell lowered his voice, trying to save his dignity: "It's just... I just hope that occasional private time can be respected."

Arthur tapped the windowsill with his pipe, his eyes looking from the curling smoke to the snowy scene outside the window, and said slowly: "Henry, I know what you are thinking. You want your life to be well-organized, with a balance between work and pleasure, and to find a lady from a prominent family at a social dance in the future, and finally live your life steadily, right?"

Blackwell was touched by this sudden bluntness. He looked up at Arthur, then lowered his head again and muttered softly, "Is there anything wrong with this?"

"I remember you were very fond of reading Shakespeare?"

"Um……"

Arthur slowly exhaled a puff of smoke. "If this letter falls into your hands, think about it carefully. I am destined to be higher than you, but do not be afraid of nobility. Some people are born noble, some become noble through hard work, and some become noble by chance."

"Twelfth Night, Act 2, Scene 5," Blackwell blurted out, but then he came back to his senses.

Because this passage is actually used to mock the butler Malvolio's vain ambition and satirize his attempt to climb up to a noble woman like Olivia in order to elevate his own status.

Arthur stared at his flushed face and advised him politely, "Henry, I don't mean to discourage you. But you have to understand that no matter how gorgeous the clothes we wear or how expensive the wine we drink, our true nature is just tools. A farmer is still a farmer if he leaves the farmland. A worker can still be a worker if he leaves the factory. But if a diplomat leaves this job, he is no longer a diplomat."

Arthur tapped his pipe slowly, shook the ashes into a small box he carried with him, and continued, "Henry, you know about Sir David Urquhart. But have you ever thought about what the consequences would be if we didn't handle our relations with Russia properly?"

Blackwell frowned. "We are implementing the policy of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Besides, Sir David, who affects diplomatic relations, shouldn't the responsibility be borne entirely by our mission in Russia?"

Arthur laughed and turned his eyes to the vast snowfield outside the window. "You and I have no say on who is responsible, so there is no need to push the responsibility onto others, because it is useless. The Tsar has never been a tolerant person. If Britain's actions make him dissatisfied, he can order us to get out of Russia at any time. And all of us, from you to me, from counselors to private secretaries, will lose this status. Without the embassy in Russia, who can you expect to pay your salary? Which noble lady can you expect to be willing to dance with an unemployed secretary?"

Blackwell's face suddenly darkened. "It shouldn't be that serious, right? Are you saying that the Tsar might really...expel us?"

"Don't underestimate his methods, and don't overestimate our position. In the game of diplomacy, might has the final say. If the unfortunate thing really happens, it won't be a big deal for me. At most, I will be transferred to a colonial institution in India, Canada, or even Australia. Although the conditions there are difficult, at least there is a job and a fixed salary. And you, Henry, what are you going to do?"

Arthur described Blackwell's future in a lighthearted way: "You are a low-level diplomat who has made a serious mistake, and there is no one in your family who can support you. Without my recommendation letter and the protection of the embassy, ​​where can you go? Go back to London to find a clerical job, or go to a country school to teach French and German? Those aristocratic friends you met at the Carnival ball will forget you immediately, or even pretend that they have never known you. Because you are no longer a diplomat, you are just an insignificant and useless little person."

Blackwell's hands subconsciously grasped his knees, and every word Arthur said hit him like snowflakes.

Is there anything my family can do to help me?

He couldn't help but think of his family.

The Blackwell family was just a member of the middle class in London. His father ran a small printing workshop, and the income was barely enough to support the family's decent life, but it was by no means an important supporter who could provide him with shelter or resettlement.

His elder brother did inherit the family business, but the relationship between the two has always been cold, and his elder brother may not be willing to pay for his mistakes.

As for those distant noble relatives, they had long since ignored this branch of their clan.

Blackwell knew that if he really lost his job, all his family could give him was a few words of comfort and a loan of a few hundred pounds at most, rather than real support that could work.

He knew French and German, and had used them adeptly in diplomatic affairs, but what could he do with such skills back in London in 1834?
Become a translator?

There might be a job, but it would not pay well and would have no future.

Go to a newspaper to be a writer?
This industry is highly competitive and relies heavily on connections. Besides, his reputation may have been completely ruined by his diplomatic mistakes.

As for teaching languages, although he could try to start a small French or German class…

But where do the students come from?
How much income can you get?
Such a life would only cause him to fall from a respectable diplomat to a small clerk struggling to make a living. Although he would not be in the poor class, he would never be able to live as comfortably as he does now.

Arthur saw the wonderful changes in Blackwell's expression and realized that this unruly goat was finally willing to wear the collar.

It has to be said that what Talleyrand, the French master of psychology and Europe's number one charlatan, taught him has always been useful. This time his words came true again - seeing the little people working hard, people will compromise with the big people.

Agares' voice sounded in Arthur's ears, with his usual teasing and mocking tone, as if he was leaning leisurely in some dark corner of the carriage.

"My dear Arthur, your manipulation of people's hearts is becoming more and more sophisticated! Look at you, you are just like a young version of Talleyrand-Périgord, even the way you walk with a limp is so similar to his. Never place your hope on the kindness of others, but on the fear of others. How about this, since you have obtained the professorship of the German Confederation, when you retire, I will arrange a position for you to open a course in administration at the University of Hell, what do you say?"

Arthur snorted softly, covered his face with the newspaper, and murmured softly: "The students of Hell University are too stupid. They can't learn anything."

Agares smiled instead of getting angry. He said with a playful smile, "Oh, dear, what you said is really harsh! But you are right. Most of the students we recruit are not smart. Otherwise, why would they take their souls and exchange them for some third-rate wishes?"

(End of this chapter)